


come get your dues

by courante



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, Alternate Universe - College/University, Background Relationships, M/M, Meet-Cute, Rival Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 11:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18031133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante
Summary: “He’s still moping over losing to his basketball wife,” Andrew informs the entire table.“What the fuck is a basketball wife,” Annie says incredulously, the exact same time Steven snaps up from his food and deadpans “Andrew, what thehell.”Andrew looks at him all unperturbed like it’s common sense; so, like Steven’s the densest person in the world for asking. “It’s like a work wife, but you know,sports.”





	come get your dues

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer that my knowledge about real-life college basketball is... questionable & i chose the schools out of convenience; i know nothing about either. this fic is literally me trying to bait fans who actually know more about basketball than i do into writing more for this ship and this sort of au. ~~please imagine both of them being five inches taller if it helps with the suspension of disbelief.~~
> 
> (also, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it mention of annie/jen.)

Everything is a blur: lights, cameras, the stamping and screaming of spectators. His teammates’ yelling and the seemingly endless court beyond him. People closing in, the heat of bodies and skidding squeak of sneakers underfoot.

His fingers scrape at the rough surface of the ball as it leaves his hands, and then the buzzer sounds loud and blaring—  

 

The next morning Annie slides the student newspaper hot off the press onto his desk right before the seminar begins. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” she says, before ducking away from a thrown pencil.

“What _is_ this,” Steven groans, holding the paper up like it were a dead fish. The gutpunch isn’t a headliner (that goes to the protests against the new student body president), but big enough and above the fold: _Bruins lose friendly match against Trojans 63-64._ “Do you really have to rub salt in my wounds like that, Annie? I thought we were friends.”

“Not my headline,” she shoots back, but the not-so-subtle cough from the student in front of them shuts both of them up as the professor launches into his lecture about housing arrangements in ancient Mesopotamia.

For someone who’s away from the classroom half the time Steven has been keeping up with his studies quite well, if he might say so himself. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to face-plant into his notebook that’s now resembling more and more like tiny ants crawling across his vision and less like actual notes. Or wanting to forget the complete embarrassment that was yesterday’s match.

He could still see the blinding lights, the astonished faces of his teammates, and most devastatingly of all Ryan Bergara’s stupid, self-satisfied smirk as the ball slams down hard and out of bounds, completely askew from its intended trajectory.

It’d been one of those rare exhibition games between the two schools, but if anything Steven wouldn’t have felt so _humiliated_ if only it had been anyone else who shut him down. It doesn’t matter that nobody really blamed him, or that most people seemed more resigned than angry (an emotion saved up for when the actual conference season begins) that he’s seen in the brief time he’d allowed himself to look at Twitter this morning. It doesn’t even matter that they’ll probably kick the Trojans’ asses in the spring like they always do. He’d let the blood get to his head at the very worst moment possible—

“Hey,” Annie waves a hand in front of his face. “Class’s over, daydreamer.”

“Ugh,” is all Steven manages. Annie rolls her eyes and half-pulls him out of the seat. “Annie, my life’s a _failure_.”

Annie mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _this school should be paying_ me _millions for babysitting its basketball captain_ before hauling his ass out the door. “No more moping, Lim, we’re getting lunch.”

 

Andrew is even less sympathetic over the loss, not even deigning to acknowledge Steven’s sulking or the very existence of sports as a concept before telling them he’s already ordered, but Steven’s sort of counted on that already. He’s also counted on eating out making him marginally more happy, so at least there’s that.

Pretty soon he’s flicking bits of fried spaghetti sticks across the table, the pieces ricocheting off Annie’s phone and Andrew’s bowl and Adam’s glasses. Adam stares at him calmly, but his words come out dripping with murderous intent. “Can you stop.”

“He’s still moping over losing to his basketball wife,” Andrew informs the entire table as soup is served. The waiter looks decidedly unimpressed at the mess they’ve been making over the table, which probably warrants at least a 30% tip later.

“What the fuck is a basketball wife,” Annie says incredulously, the exact same time Steven snaps up from his food and deadpans “Andrew, what the _hell_.”

“Ooh, you made Steven swear,” Adam laughs, wiping his glasses.

Andrew looks at him all unperturbed like it’s common sense; so, like Steven’s the densest person in the world for asking. “It’s like a work wife, but you know, _sports_.”

“That makes no sense and I hate all of you,” Steven declares, unconvincingly he supposes as the entire group just shakes their heads at him in mock despair. “Anyway, why would I want Bergara as a basketball wife when he’s, like, an asshole. There’s tons of, you know—”

“Hot men on your own team?” Annie asks, and dodges the second projectile launched at her of the day as Steven feels his face flush. It’s never something he could counteract; he just has to go and turn apple red. “Too far?”

“We’re in _public_ ,” he hisses, ducking down into his bowl of shrimp scampi as unsuspecting customers pass by their table. The restaurant’s a ten-minute drive away from campus, which is far enough away that hopefully nobody has recognized him outright. Annie’s words aren’t untrue; Ben’s got a nice smile, Kwesi’s hot, rinse repeat a few times over if they’re including the rookies too. Steven’s just particular about not getting into any relationships that might jeopardize the harmony of his team. Not even gonna _think_ about it. He’s got no time, anyhow. “Go, like, I dunno, hit up your girl from the fencing team or something, Annie.”

That makes her clam up, for now.

 

Like a true overthinker does, Andrew’s words hover on Steven’s mind for the rest of the day, stewing into something not quite approaching unpleasant but confusing all the same. He’s coming out of Boba Guys after dinner with some teammates when someone bumps into him, causing him to scatter the contents of his binder all over the sidewalk.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” the guy says, and before Steven could say anything he’s already kneeling down to pick up all the papers. _Of course it’s gonna be like this_ , he thinks as he stares at the red and black embossed cap, but of course he says nothing but thank you and begins to smile as the guy straightens up and hands him his stuff. Only to freeze when he realizes who it is.

(Steven’s not proud to admit it had been the shoes that had tipped him off first and foremost; he’s perhaps spent too much time looking at them on those training tapes.)

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steven groans at the same time Ryan’s eyes widen and he drops his hand a little, muttering, “Oh boy.”

“Just to make it clear, you haven’t followed me here to keep gloating in my face.”

Ryan watches him stuff the papers back into his bag after a careful once-over, an eyebrow raised. “Nope, just wanted some boba. Relax, I don’t bite...off court.”

“That sounds dirty,” Steven replies, which makes absolutely no sense and has him flushing warm again the moment it comes out of his mouth. He blames it on sleep deprivation, which does nothing to alleviate the continued embarrassment of his very being in front of his nemesis from across town. Lord give him strength to continue existing after this moment.

Instead of saying anything snarky or rude, Ryan breaks into a laugh, tilting his head back in a way that’s almost endearing. “If you say so, Lim. Anyway, next time, yeah?”

He’s already inside the store before Steven could untangle his tongue enough to try to form words again.

 

Despite everything Steven quickly puts the whole situation behind him over the next few weeks, as his schedule starts to become the usual chaotic mess of morning classes and training and workouts and Chinese takeout. The team’s got some good, fresh new blood this year, and with the regular season quickly approaching it’s all Steven really thinks about at this point. Scheduling woes, student press conferences, strategizing, getting yelled at by the coach…

It’s almost midnight when Steven’s phone buzzes loud enough to wake him from his undignified position of having fallen asleep with his face against a well-worn textbook cover and flight details for their next training camp excursion. He shakes his head and grabs the phone without looking at the caller ID, groaning into it sleepily, “Hello?”

“Hey, um,” a voice begins, somewhat familiar but not enough for Steven to place who it is immediately in his current disoriented state. “So, uh, this is incredibly dumb of me but I kinda deleted all of my contacts, and I was wondering who…”

Great, it’s this line again. Whoever leaked his number is gonna _get it_. But as Steven listens on, it becomes apparent that this isn’t a groupie or fan or scammer wanting his credit card information— it’s someone he’s talked to before. He hears a cough and an almost-laugh.

Wait.

“Wait a minute,” his brain unscrambles itself long enough to land on a name. “ _Ryan?_ Is that you?”

Silence.

“Oh my god, you really are stalking me,” Steven exclaims, about to throw his phone down onto the bed. Good thing his room is tightly locked up, though he looks around frantically anyway. “You want to figure out our training schedule and—and—”

“Dude, that’s n—calm _down_ , my god,” Ryan almost shouts, the exasperation creeping into his voice palpable. “How are you even more paranoid than I am, just...that’s the most idiotic reason to stalk someone. I don’t need to know your schedule to be better than you.”

“That was _not_ what I was going to say and you are _not_ better than me,” Steven mutters, well-aware of his childish he sounds. “How’d you get my number then? Did you—”

“I remember fairly well our coaches made us trade numbers during that game,” Ryan replies, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I put yours down in the notes but forgot to add a name. And then, well. Here we are.”

“...I guess I’ll take that.”

“You still sound suspicious.”

“That’s because I am,” Steven says. He’d forgotten all about that exchange, in lieu of everything else that’d happened during that game. But it could be the most natural thing in the world to have Ryan Bergara’s number for general basketball shenanigans and the like and he’d still be suspicious, _because_. It’s a wonder Ryan doesn’t seem to feel the same way towards him, what with the way he acts all cocky and ruthless and terrifying with a ball in his hands in a way that gets Steven's own blood pumping, a world apart from how their meeting at the boba place went down. Yeah, it’s completely normal to have an on-off switch for getting into the zone on the court, to talk shit even when nobody else will back you up, but still.

Maybe it’s that insecurity creeping in again. But maybe it’s something else, less noticeable, hidden somewhere Steven isn’t quite sure he wants to search just yet.

“Cripes,” Ryan murmurs, his voice somewhat smaller now. There’s a sigh, sort of. “Look, I’m...ah, I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have called like this, it’s a bit creepy.”

Steven lets the silence linger a bit (half waiting for the other shoe to drop, half thinking the ensuing awkwardness might be its own form of revenge) before replying, “Yeah, no, it’s fine. Apology accepted.”

They make a bit of curious, hesitant small talk before hanging up, and Steven rolls onto the bed, homework be damned. He mulls over tomorrow’s schedule, sets his alarm, fires off a few texts to his mom telling her goodnight. For a moment he hovers a finger over Ryan’s number on the contact list, then keeps scrolling.

He thinks about the tapes and reflexes lightning-fast, about a constant stream of threes, about the shouting and the clapping and grunting and stamping. Thinks about the streetlights outside Boba Guys and the smile that faltered if even for a moment. Making sense of nothing, Steven turns over and turns off the light for sleep to hopefully overtake him.

 

“I think he has a crush on you,” Adam intones over strawberry smoothies, two days after The Phone Incident. Steven promptly spits out his straw as he chokes; Annie whacks his back in a way that feels less like helping him breathe and more like she’s been wanting to do this for months. “Seriously.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say, Adam.”

“You know Adam wouldn’t say so if it weren’t true.”

“Adam doesn’t even _know—_ ”

“I think the whole school knows,” Annie says dryly. “Even if we don’t watch the games. Oh, the smartass who argued with the ref so much he got benched during the semifinals last season, giving us a clear road to victory? It took the fire department a full day to put out _that_ celebratory bonfire up near the courts.”

“He wasn’t wrong, though,” Steven says, not liking where this is going, not liking the fact that he’s defending Ryan Bergara to his actual friends. This is exactly the type of thinking that landed him in hot water to begin with. “That foul was a bad call.”

“Don’t get all sports talk on us now, Lim.”

“That’s not even— okay, yeesh…”

Maybe Ryan had been a bit less of an asshole in normal, everyday life than Steven had anticipated (okay, a lot less, but also maybe _he’s just a good actor has anyone considered that_ ), but that’s neither here nor there. Maybe the midnight phone call had been kind of weird, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything either. There’s no _way_ Ryan has a crush on him, Steven Lim, awkward nerdy Midwestern transplant who’s only here because he also knows how to as they say, _play ball good_. Guys like Ryan usually have people falling all over their feet, and at USC there’s no shortage of rich young pretty twentysomethings for a Division I captain’s picking, even one who’s short and feisty and should probably stop posting so many Instagram stories of his workout routine to his thousands of thirsty followers.

“ _You_ post gym selfies all the time too,” Adam says somewhat accusingly, like the contents of Steven’s brain are all obviously plastered across his face. This time, his straw misses Adam completely and gets Annie in the hair. Third time’s the charm, Steven thinks even as he dashes away from her indignant yelling and Adam’s laughing and all the terrible, terrible thoughts of _oh my god, oh my god, am_ I _the one with the crush—_

 

It’s unseasonably cold for the first week of November, at least to all the LA natives already walking around shivering in down jackets and long coats. Steven isn’t complaining; this is enjoyable weather especially with them having just gotten back from Michigan. _That_ had been some game, and his team had celebrated all the way from the tarmac where their charter plane waited until well past four in the morning when they landed.

(Even amidst all that cheer Steven had been hoping for something else he isn’t even sure of, borne by adrenaline and exhaustion. Waiting for his phone to ring, maybe, but pipe dreams are pipe dreams and it’s only stopping him from getting his head back in the game.)

He ducks into a nearby cafe after class, sleepy but armed with gameplay notes and his calc homework. Inside is toasty and warm and very full, the only table with a visible seat being across from some guy hunched intently over his phone. Hey, at least he’s not taking up much table space. Steven walks over and deposits his stuff on the empty seat before any protests could be made; he’d be waiting all night otherwise.

“Nobody’s got this spot, right?”

The guy looks up and— _Christ._

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Steven murmurs, quiet enough though his heart is apt to leap out of his chest any time. Maybe with the nondescript hoodie with the hood up and hair down and sunglasses on it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else, but at this point Steven’s resigned to knowing he’s already in too deep.

“Don’t go blowing my cover then, jeez,” Ryan says, in the same quiet tone. He shifts in his seat, like it’s too small or the space around them seems to crowding in. “I swear to god— I was here on business earlier. Not reconnaissance.”

“Mhm.”

“D’ya need my texts to prove it? Phone records?”

“Why would I— forget it, I just.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks away, not exactly unaware of the way Ryan seems to be following those motions rather intently even behind the tint of his sunglasses. Steven shakes his head, shoulders sagging as he smiles apologetically. “Sorry. That was rude of me to assume.”

“Nah, you’re fine.” He grins, and thank god the lighting here is too terrible for anyone to see the warmth creeping up Steven’s neck again. “Go get your drink, I’ll look after your stuff.”

 _Basketball wife,_ Andrew’s words echo in the back of his head, like a curse he can’t shake off. It’s not even the right analogy. Steven wants badly to sink into a hole and disappear, not because he hates Ryan being here, but because this is all he’s been thinking about after being thoroughly dunked on by his friends last month. It’s like all the fanfiction Annie and Jen read between classes have escaped the confines of their phones and coalesced into a real life web of terror designed to trap him into a shitty rom-com plotline.

Or…that’s exactly what this is. What he’s been trying to escape from to no avail. Steven stands in line, everything in his mind racing to a point in the horizon, and finds the conclusion he’s come to both acutely terrifying and impossible to ignore.

But if that’s what he needs to do, and even if he messes up, he’ll just have to live with the consequences.

He orders and comes back to the table with two mugs, placing one in front of Ryan. “Here.”

“What?”

“My treat.”

Ryan’s shoulders stiffen; then he looks up slowly, then down at the mug for such a long while that Steven’s beginning to wonder if he thinks there’s pills in the matcha. He opens his mouth, but then Ryan surprises him once again by taking off his sunglasses, those warm brown eyes strangely intense in the lighting.

“Is this…” he asks, in a small voice that doesn’t seem to belong; he sounds almost _shy_. “Is this a date?”

No gaping maw opens up in the ground to swallow him whole. No lightning strikes down from the sky. Nobody even looks their way, too absorbed in their own conversations and schoolwork and worlds. Steven really hadn’t thought this through; he blinks furiously, nearly shaking his head before remembering what he’d been about to say. “I… if you’ll let it be. I mean it’s kind of silly if we keep doing this, you know, _thing_. So.”

“Yeah, I um, yeah, I know what you mean.” Ryan stares at his lap; Steven stares at him, then slowly slides into the seat across from him. He laughs a bit shakily. “Ah, wow, I’m really bad at this. Sorry for you know, starting off on the wrong foot— ”

“No— ”

“What I meant to say was, I _wasn’t_ stalking you, I promise, but.” There it is again: that smile that Steven’s been thinking about for weeks— not frightening, not terrible, just soft and kind of embarrassed. Something to keep for himself, if only because it rarely comes out on-screen. “I’d be lying if I hadn’t been hoping to run into you.”

“Wow,” Steven replies. At this point he’s well aware of just how red he must be; thankfully Ryan doesn’t comment. He reaches for his cup instinctively, something to keep his hands occupied while his brain races at the speed of light. “I uh. Didn’t think you thought of me like that. Like I’ve been hoping, but—”

“But you thought, 'this is kinda ridiculous, isn’t it? Fraternizing with the enemy.'”

Steven makes a sound of protest. “I mean if you put it like that, duh. I’m still gonna kick your ass next spring— ”

“Oh, we’re at _this_ point in the relationship already?”

“Shut up,” Steven says immediately, instinctively, and Ryan laughs again, his grin a little sharper, a little more feral. But this time, Steven’s ready for him. “Oh, just you watch, I _will_.”

 

The crowd erupts as his team strides onto the court, chanting amidst the kazoos’ deafening blares. It still amazes Steven; every time, he has to remind himself that he’s really here, that these cheers are for something special he belongs to. Something that sends jolts down his spine, through his blood, all the way to the soles of his shoes and the rumbling ground below.

This time, when Steven walks up to the front of the line and looks straight into Ryan’s eyes, he smiles widely.

“Don’t go easy on me now, Bergara,” he teases, and Ryan’s eyes crinkle a little as they shake hands and take position.

“Wouldn’t ever think about it, Lim.”

Lights, cameras, all manner of thunderous sounds all around melt away into peripheral vision as they look at each other face to face, touch and go. The smirk is back, although tinged with excitement and the kind of fire Steven knows all too well by now, something he gives back in turn.

Steven barely hears the referee’s whistle as he jumps, two sets of feet leaving the ground simultaneously. For a moment they are suspended in the air, both reaching towards the lights above, reaching towards each other, like moth to flame. Time stills, noises fade; there is only Ryan, and their common but diverging goal.

And when Steven feels the ball hot and electric at the tips of his fingers, he already knows this time will turn out different.


End file.
